Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
ZAHRA
The office was empty except for me, the overhead lights dimmed hours ago to conserve energy, only my desk lamp illuminating the space. I stared at my phone screen, Oliver's name and number displayed, my thumb hovering over the call button.
Two days of the same result. Two days of his voicemail greeting, polite and professional, with no response to my messages. Forty-eight hours of growing anxiety gnawing at the edge of every breath.
I pressed call anyway, listening to it ring until his voice answered mechanically: "You've reached Oliver Beck. I'm unavailable to take your call. Please leave a message, and I'll return your call at my earliest convenience."
Not, "I can't come to the phone right now." Not, "I'm busy." Unavailable . The word choice seemed deliberate; a barrier as carefully constructed as everything else in his life.
I ended the call without leaving another message. What was the point? It was clear he wasn’t intending to call me back.
Instead, I opened my voicemail and found his message. I'd played it so many times the app had automatically marked it as "important," as if I needed a digital reminder of how much his broken voice haunted me.
I pressed play, closing my eyes as his words filled the quiet office.
"Zahra..."
The crack in his voice when he said my name made my chest ache every time.
The message kept playing, every word another slash to my soul.
I could picture him so clearly—fingers gripping his hair until he practically tore it out by the root, eyes squeezed shut against emotions he'd spent a lifetime suppressing, his expression twisting, trying to push back pain he could no longer bury.
And every short and shallow breath that held a world of hurt made me bleed for the boy who never learned how to let people love him back.
A soft knock on my office door made me jump, my finger quickly pressing pause. I looked up to see Elena standing in the doorway, her expression curious.
"Still working?" she asked, stepping into the office without waiting for an invitation. "It's almost nine."
I switched off my phone screen. "Just wrapping up some details for the Nguyen wedding next month."
Elena's raised eyebrow told me she didn't believe me for a second, but she didn't press. Instead, she set two flash drives on my desk.
"Finished editing Parisa and Darryl's wedding photos," she said, tapping the blue drive. "They came out great. Thought you'd want to see them before I send the link tomorrow."
"Thanks," I said, reaching for the drive. "You didn't need to bring them in person, though. An email would have been fine."
"Maybe. But this one...” She pushed the second drive, a shiny red one, toward me. “This one's for you."
I picked it up, turning it over in my hand. "What is it?"
"Just some shots I took." She shrugged, her tone casual. "While I was working. You know how I like to capture candids."
Something in her expression made my stomach tighten. "Elena..."
"Just look at them, Zahra." She backed toward the door. "And then maybe stop being as stubborn as he is."
Before I could respond, she was gone, leaving me staring at the small drive like it might explode in my hand.
With a sigh, I plugged it into my laptop and opened the folder that appeared. It contained a single slideshow file titled simply "Z&O."
I hesitated, then clicked.
The first image filled my screen—Oliver and me in the park, the day of our ice cream "date."
I froze, the breath catching in my throat.
It wasn’t staged, wasn’t posed.
It was me laughing at something he’d said, and him… God, the way he was looking at me.
Like the sun rose and set in my smile.
Like he hadn't even realized he was smiling back. Like I was an instinct he couldn’t fight.
Photo after photo flickered across the screen.
Oliver wiping a smudge of ice cream from my nose, his fingers careful, reverent.
Oliver’s hand ghosting over the small of my back as we crossed the street, a touch so natural, so thoughtless in its care and protectiveness that it shattered something in my chest.
Oliver leaning in to whisper something that made me flush, while the rest of the world blurred away behind us.
Me, standing at the fountain in Norman, laughing at the spray of water—and in that shot, it wasn’t just adoration in Oliver's gaze.
It was fear. Hope. Awe.
The kind of look people gave when they realized they were in the presence of something too rare, too sacred to name.
I hadn't even noticed that look in real time. I was too busy second-guessing everything, too scared to believe it could be real.
But it was real. It had always been real.
And now it was just another moment, trapped behind a glass screen. A ghost flickering through pixels.
I closed the slideshow midway and just sat there, my palms pressed to my chest, trying to hold myself together.
Tears blurred the edges of the screen, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to see more photos to know.
I felt it burning inside me.
Proof that even while we were hiding behind the contract, Oliver Beck’s love had been stronger than his rules, breaking through the barriers of his denial.
Even when he should have been resenting me.
Even while he was telling himself he was only using me.
I reached for my phone again, but this time I scrolled to Emmet's number instead of Oliver's.
He answered on the second ring, his voice cautious. "I was wondering when I’d hear from you."
Straight to the point. No fanfare, no bullshit.
"How is he?" I asked, following Emmet’s lead.
Emmet sighed, the sound heavy with concern. "Not good. He's functioning, if that's what you're asking. Teaching his classes, grading papers. But that's about it."
"He's not answering my calls."
"He's not answering anyone's," Emmet said. "Not me, not Tobias. He communicates with short messages. Factual, bland.”
“I mean, that’s not entirely out of character.”
Emmet chuckled softly, devoid of any real humor. “With you, maybe. But he hasn’t called me Quark since he got back.”
“Fuck,” I muttered. It was worse than I thought.
“Yeah.” Emmet scoffed. “The only times he leaves the apartment are for work or..."
"Or what?"
There was a pause, and I could almost see Emmet weighing his words. "Or for bookings."
I sat up straighter. "He's still doing those?"
"Not as much as before, but he hasn't quit Foxy’s. Says he needs the money, but honestly?" Another sigh. "I think it's the only thing that feels normal to him right now. Structured. Safe."
Something clicked in my mind, pieces falling into place. Of course. Oliver functioned within structures, within rules. He'd created an entire identity around them, a shield against the unpredictability of real connection.
" I think I’ve figured out how to get him to talk to me.".
"Zahra..." Emmet's voice held a warning. "Oliver is fragile right now. And I’ve already told you—he isn’t as strong as he pretends to be, most of all when it comes to you."
"I'm worried about him, Emmet," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "He left me a voicemail a couple of days ago and…” A shuddery breath escaped from between my lips. “I've never heard him like that." I glanced at my laptop screen, still displaying the folder. "I need to see him."
The line went quiet for a moment. Then Emmet spoke, his voice softer. "Forty-five-minute introductory dates. He always accepts those."
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't hurt him, Zahra," Emmet said, not unkindly, but the fear in his voice was unmistakable. "Whatever's happening between you two, just... I don’t know how much more he can take before..."
He trailed off, leaving me to fill in the blanks with terrifying possibilities.
Twenty minutes later, my fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling so badly I could barely type.
On the screen: a fake profile.
Katherine Reynolds. Polished, vague, safe.
The profile photo I’d chosen was some stock image of a woman with dark curls and a vague smile. She looked nice. Forgettable.
And wasn’t that the irony? Oliver Beck—the man who once mapped my soul like constellations, who made me feel unforgettable—and now I was just another ping on his booking app.
I hated how much it hurt.
But that hurt was proof. Proof that my heart still bled for him. Beat for him.
Tomorrow, 8:30 AM, introductory date with Oliver, where it all began—Café Lucid.
The booking form stared back at me, waiting for me to decide if I wanted to add special requests.
I stared at the empty box, the cursor pulsing like a heartbeat.
And before I could stop myself— "Please.”
Tears blurred my vision, blurring the screen, the keyboard, everything but the awful, fragile hope clawing up my throat.
Hope that maybe, somehow, this would reach him.
That he'd see it and understand.
That it would be enough to pull him out of the darkness he’d given in to.
The cursor hovered over the "Submit" button.
And then?—
Panic.
Doubt.
Shame.
What if it wasn’t enough?
What if it made things worse?
What if we were already broken beyond repair?
I blinked furiously, dragging my hand back to the keyboard.
I deleted the note.
Letter by letter, I erased every desperate syllable until the box was empty again.
No clues.
No begging.
No promises.
Just a stranger booking a stranger for coffee.
I clicked the "Book Now" button before I could change my mind.
The confirmation screen appeared, along with an ironically cheerful message thanking me for choosing Foxy's for my companionship needs. I closed the tab, my heart racing, wondering if choosing such a significant landmark in our relationship would tip him off it was me, deter him, or worse—both.
He’d figure out it was me and decline.
And even if he accepted, I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw him.
Maybe I’d say I missed him. Maybe I’d say nothing at all. Maybe the moment would split me open, and I’d just sit there, waiting for him to read the pain in my eyes and offer a steadying hand like he used to.
This was desperate. Maybe even a little crazy. But all I could hear was his voice on that message—raw, unraveling, the pain bleeding through each word, and utterly defeated, as if he’d given up, given in.
Then I thought of the photos Elena had shown me, the truth captured in stolen moments.
It felt surreal. A cosmic loop I hadn’t meant to complete. A few months ago, I booked Oliver Beck out of stubborn hope. Now I was booking him again because... Well, still out of stubborn hope, but what I was hoping for was vastly different.
Tomorrow morning, 8:30 AM.
One last chance.
One last gamble.
I sat back in my chair, wrapping my arms around myself like that might hold the pieces together. The office around me had gone still. Even the hum of the overhead lights had faded, as if the whole world was waiting to see what he'd do.
I didn’t pray. Not exactly. But I did whisper his name once— Oliver —like it might carry through the ether. Like it might reach him wherever he was and remind him that someone was still waiting.
That someone still believed in him.
That maybe, somewhere beneath all the rules and grief and silence, he still believed in us, too.
Because if he showed up, if he looked at me with those weary, guarded eyes and still chose to stay?—
Maybe, just maybe, there was still a future worth fighting for.